Cups
by W Murray
Summary: Cullen reminisces about a woman he knew once, named Amell, and their history together.


_"I knew an Amell once. She was a special woman. Never met her like again."_

_Yes, he knew an Amell once. Long before he came to serve in Kirkwall, before his mind had been shattered by the events at the Ferelden Circle, and long before he came to see that Templars served to protect the mages, as much as they served to protect the people from the mages._

_He knew an Amell, once._

_Cullen's thoughts were dark, as dark as the night outside the hall, outside the Gallows. The name caused him some measure of bitter amusement. He was a broken man, a dead man – but he fancied himself a good man, in the end._

_It was, he imagined, because of an Amell he knew once. The years spent at the Circle of Ferelden left more than scars; they also left the memories of her._

They had grown up together, in a fashion. He was fresh from the monasteries, so proud and sure of his duties as Templar. The lyrium was strong in his veins – he could feel it flow through him…Though his hot blood stilled and he was in despair when he rounded that corner in the library, when he locked eyes with her. Cullen remembered what brought him there – it was a change of the guard, and the knight usually assigned to the library had taken ill. She had her back to him, digging through the shelves to find some volume or another, and the sound of his plate armor had jangled and clanked unexpectedly, causing her to turn to him in surprise.  
Her eyes – those black pools – locked with his. All that pride had drained from him and he was blushing and stammering. The book in her hand had dropped, and he had darted to retrieve at the bottom of the ladder.

"H-here…I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to s-surprise you…" He averted his eyes and she made her way down the ladder in the stiff robe, once within range, reaching to take the book from him – their fingers touched (as much as they could, him in his heavy plate gloves and all) and he withdrew his hand as if she had burned him. She was a mage. Hadn't she burned him? But there were no marks on his gloves, no tell-tale smell of lyrium in the air. Just violets. The violets in her hair. She gave a shy smile in return and seemed to shrink away from him – the nervous look she gave over her shoulder reminded him that she probably thought she had offended him. He moved back a few steps, sheepishly stammering more apologies, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…I didn't mean to disturb you, I'll, I'll go…" Turning on his heel to make a quick get-away, he was frozen in his tracks by the sound of her voice.

"Oh – forgive me. You did not disturb – I was just surprised. You don't have to go."

And he was turned around again, gaining some measure of self-composure as he executed a short bow. That shy smile grew wider, and he felt his heart grow, pound in his chest in response. Cullen could only muster a nod; if he had said anything at that point, it would have probably been declarations of love or marriage. He half-jogged to the post at the base of the statue, and she had taken the book and moved to a table to study. He realized then, he hadn't even gotten her name.

_It was well into his third cup when he remembered exactly when he learned her name. When he first learned of the Amell family, when he had first seen the remnants of their line – even before the one known as Hawke came to rebuild the family's legacy – he made a point of running into them, trying to search their faces for some part of her._

"Lyde?"

Cullen perked up as he saw her turn her head to respond to the elder mage. Lyde. That was her name! He turned over the name in his mind, lowered his head so they would not see him mouth her name. Lyde. Lyde. Lyde and Cullen. He thought it had a pleasant ring to it, the two names paired together. He was so preoccupied that he didn't even hear her response, though that part didn't matter. It was some archaic bit of historical knowledge regarding some spell or some battle or some character. The question, whatever it was, was answered, and Lyde had bent her head low to scribble away in the book before her. He took the opportunity to observe her profile. It was strong and aquiline, with a mass of dark hair – nearly black, but not a cold black, warm, the color of fertile, rich earth. Her skin was characteristic of a woman from the south – or from places that weren't wet and rainy but filled with sun; it was the color of…tea, he decided. Tea after a heavy dose of cream and milk.

Tea, he imagined, that would make for an excellent drink on a day like this, when the rain pounded down on the glass windows. He entertained the thought of asking if she would like a cup with him, going to the large hall that served as cafeteria…

When another guard nudged him, and broke him out of his reverie. He bowed his head to hide his blush, though a sound of alarm sounded in his head. Had the other Templar seen him looking at her? Staring at her? Studying her face?...He didn't look at her for the rest of class, only daring to look to the empty seat she left when the class had long ended.

_He had never been responsible for separating Mage children from their families until he came to Kirkwall. He had never had to wrench the child from the arms of its mother, or see the fear in their eyes when the heavily armored Templars approached the foundling – approaching it like a ticking time bomb until it was within the walls of the Gallows. When he learned of the Amells, of their reversals of fortunes after the birth of Lyde; he wondered how it had happened. Given what he had seen, they would have been the sort to cast her out. How old had she been? Had she been afraid, and lost, and alone, and with only the grim, plated Templars to serve as company? He raged against the family that would cast her out, he raged at the Templars that would have frightened her…But the rage subsided. She wouldn't have been at the Circle if they had hidden her, he wouldn't have met her. And if she had become an apostate…_

This was one of those times that always caused the Templars concern. It wasn't the first time that such an event occurred: They were surrounded by a lake, and during a hot summer like this one, the younger mages would swim and play and frolic along the shore. A group of girls had chosen today to make merry, to play and relax. Cullen reproached himself inwardly as he approached the narrow window, but he just couldn't help but look. Another Templar, another of the younger men, shared the window space with him, gawking at the women out on the shore.

What a sight it was! Freed from the heavy, stiff robes, clad in white shifts, they would lounge on the shore, or swim out a short ways into the water. A lone Templar – their only woman – stood watch, still as a statue on the beach, while the girls laughed and splashed each other and did all manner of what he assumed were girly things. "Look at them!" The other Templar whispered, biting his lower lip. "You can see through their shifts when they get into the water! Just look at them!" Cullen could only nod in response, could only give an affirmative grunt, but he was only looking at one of them. Lyde, with the dress pooled about her knees, trudging through the water with another girl, picking up shells. Even if the chemise she wore wasn't as wet and sheer as the others, even if it was just the sight of her exposed collarbone, of her bare arms – it was more skin, it was the most naked he had ever seen her. He ached to go into the water and join her, to get out of the ever constrictive armor. It was growing uncomfortably tight in fact. Maybe it was just the heat, but he could not tear his eyes off of her.

Someone called out to the lone guard, her name was Anya, and she turned to look at the group of girls, barking something out – a warning, most likely – before trudging away from the group, the armor clanking loudly. Any question of what called the woman away was soon driven out as the group of girls turned eerily quiet. The spell of the dancing nymphs was momentarily broken, and Cullen stood up rigidly, body tense. They were up to something. One of the girls, a blond one, whispered something, moved her hand in the air – he was even more alert now – and suddenly figures rose from the water. He recognized them instantly: the male mages, the young men. His companion seem unfazed, he even grew more excited, "D'you know what this is? D'you know what they're doing? It's a party." He knew exactly what it was, and he felt something boiling inside him. Some of the mages were quick to get started – the clever creatures began to dig up what soon appeared to be bottles, probably absconded through the year and hidden within the sand and dirt, popping open corks and passing the liquor around. Others were quick to link up with paramours, and the fruits of a long winter came to bloom – couples laying in the sand, lips and legs entangled together. Others were more subtle, more coy – and while Cullen certainly knew how things between a man and woman worked, he had never seen them in action. Heads were in laps, bodies were pressed together, there were moans and groans. The young man next to him was positively giddy...But all he could do was look to her.

Would Lyde have a secret paramour? Would she be – yes, she was. He felt his heart break inside his chest. She was moving towards a mage – Cullen recognized him. He was an infamous trouble maker, and had apparently made escape attempts before. He was a blonde boy, hailing from the Anderfells. She had linked her fingers in his, holding hands as they murmured something, heads close together. He saw her give him a quick peck on the cheek – his heart was ashes now – saw them go further out in the water, till it settled about their waists. The boy's hands were on her shoulders, they were still talking – if he took off her underdress, if he went any further, Cullen would rip his heart out, just as the boy had ripped out his heart, and to Lyde? What would Cullen to do her...

But it ended there. Thank the Maker, it had ended there. They parted, and she drifted back to shore. He let out a breath; he had not realized he had been holding it since she had approached the other mage. He was about to slump against the wall in relief, was about to give his friend the full view of the window with an alarm went off in the back of his head. Lyde was going towards the shore, but the boy – he kept swimming. He was swimming towards the other side! A man strong in body could not have made it, but a mage-

"He's trying to escape! Quick! Alert the Commander! Wait, come with me!" He pushed the other Templar as he barreled towards the door. He was shouting in the halls – studious mages peeked their heads from behind the doors, other Templars were slow to action, but they followed him. The instructors, the elder mages soon followed, if only to prevent the death of one of their own. He had begun to strip his armor off, shouted for his friend to do the same – he would have to swim after him. A pauldron there, a plate glove there, a boot there – the belt pulled off. Soon he was naked to the waist, clad only in thin white breeches. The sand felt good beneath his feet, but he wasted no time in enjoying it. The moans of the beach party turned into screams of fear as Cullen ran out, followed by what seemed half the Templars in the tower. He dove head first into the water, and he could feel the lyrium pumping in his veins, could it feel it strengthen his heart, his arms – and soon the boy was just a short ways away. A lean, fragile mage was no match for the sinewy, muscled form of a Templar. He reached out to grab him – and felt his wrist close around the boy's ankle! He yanked him back, swung his legs through the water and planted his feet in the midsection of the smaller man. The water churned, began to boil - and Cullen roared, slapping his other hand to the man's head. The hand glowed, and the magic dampened, the magic faded, the magic ended. The man went limp, and Cullen began the long swim back to the island, one hand around the waist of the unresponsive mage.

Only when they reached the shore did the mage stir, finally giving some resistance. A crowd had since gathered: the half naked teenagers were all standing and most of them were whimpering, the Templars were stoic and imposing as ever, and the mages that had come from the tower were sandwiched between the other groups, trying to broker some sort of peace. All eyes turned to Cullen and his quarry.

Two of the Templars came to relieve him, carrying off the errant mage as Cullen swallowed lungfuls of air. A nod came from Gregoire, the Knight-Commander of the tower, and he felt his heart burst with pride. He stood up straighter, puffed his chest out, and saluted his superior. When the commander turned away, he looked to Lyde.

She was clutching another girl, tears apparent on her face. Lyde had been looking at him, but there was no approval in those black pools. There was fear, there was hatred. She held his gaze for a second before looking down, looking anywhere else but to him. He felt that urge again, the same as when they had met: he wanted to apologize, wanted to hold her shaking form, wanted to declare his love and tell her he had wanted to be in the blonde boy's place more than anything he had wanted in his life...But he remained quiet, and she was ushered away with the other young mages that were in trouble.

That night, something changed. He had always been warned against the dangers of self-pleasure. It led to weakness of mind and spirit; it was a sign of a lack of self-discipline, but that night, as he was staring at the ceiling, (the reward for his actions was a break from the long hours of guard duty during the late evening hours), as he was thinking of her...Of her in the water, but this time with him, this time with his hands on her bare shoulders, with their lips together...He imagined that they had been one of the couples on the beach. He remembered how she had emerged from the water, how she had looked in the wet chemise: the lines of her body clearly outlined, a thin, second skin...He felt himself stirr, and for the first time, he could not stop himself. His hands traveled beneath his blanket, and he he rolled to his stomach, all the better to muffle his cries and his grunts into the body of the pillow. He muffled the sound of her name on his lips as he felt release rush over him. He muffled the whispered words of love as he shuddered and lay flat on the bed, spent. One thought mingled with his re-imagining of the days events. He had to get her to...if not like him, at least, not look at him with the fear and hate in her eyes he had seen there during the day.

_He was nursing the fourth cup of the night in his dark corner of the tavern. The memory of the beach was a conflicting one. So much time seemed to have passed that the real events were tangled with his dreams. However, one thing was clear from that day: he wanted her. It was wrong, because she was a mage...But it nagged at him. How could something, someone so beautiful, who could make him feel something so...delicious...How could that be wrong? The blonde boy had been thrown in solitary confinement after his stunt on the water, and the Templars were stricter than ever when it came to that crop of mages - with his rival out of the picture, he finally had the opportunity to make his move. Cullen chuckled to himself: How he had wished he knew then what he knew now, what they could have done differently, what HE could have done differently..._

She was cold to him. They had never really been friendly, or even spoke - but her manner was markedly different. Thus his plan to win her over, to soften her heart towards him, began. Time spent neither in duty nor prayer was spent planning, and plotting. His first gift had been violets. The Mages and the Templars were gathered in prayer; the former were there by order, the latter by devotion. He had made some excuse to leave, and that is when he gathered the violets from the tower grounds. It was a small bouquet, but it was something. He had carefully laid them on her bunk, tied them up with a ribbon purchased from the store on the docks. Girls liked things like ribbons, didn't they? He debated a note. A note would implicate him if found, but without a note, she might think it someone else who was doting on her. He ultimately decided on a note - but with only his first initial.

When he saw the violet tucked behind her ear at evening meal, he beamed with pride.  
Next, next. What was next? The success of his initial endeavor spurred him onwards. Templar training didn't involve romance, but there was something to be said of chivalry...But he couldn't just ride up to her on a horse and call her milady or play the lute (if he even know how to play a lute) for her. Too open. He started to split the time he was allowed on the mainland into equal parts scouring the vendors for some new thing, and covering his tracks by drinking in the tavern with the rest of the off-duty Templars. He knew so little of her, and he couldn't just - what did she like? What about books? She was always reading. A small book of poetry was the next item to find itself beneath her pillow, with that single C written in the corner of the first page.

He saw her reading it during meal times. He so wanted to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, to touch her and ask her what her favorite poem was. He wanted to read them to her.

A seashell from the eastern coast was the next item hidden beneath her pillow; followed by a piece of candied orange. There was an embroidered ribbon, a quill made from an eagle's wing, a copper ring, and a little pouch of dried, sweet smelling herbs. Over the course of six months, he deposited these gifts, and others, beneath her pillow. Always with a card bearing his initial. He made an effort to smile at her when she looked his way, made an effort to be close to her - and even speak to her, though their dialogue mostly consisted of a "Yes," or a "No," or an occasional "Thank you" for some small deed. Each little piece was, in his mind, a grand conquest. It built him up, and one day, he decided it was time to let her know...

Of course, he couldn't go and talk to her. He had purchased something special to give her - to slip to her. He knew her schedule by heart, knew which way she walked to her classes. He was never more nervous than he was when he walked down that hall, waiting to hear that familiar light step echo down the hallway. There! He heard her mumble something, heard her steps getting closer - he took a deep breath, and turned the corner - right into her! Her books fell, and he knelt to help her retrieve them. She was so close!

"Oh! Oh no! I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..." Lyde knelt down, trying to close the books and restack them - her cheeks were red - Cullen had never been closer to her. His heart was pounding.

"It's - it's m-my fault. I'm...I'm like a big metal wall in th-this uniform. L-let me, let me help you..." He wanted to reach out and hold her! Instead, he settled for using his free arm to help with the books, the other reaching into his pocket. The books were now sorted and stacked, she was getting ready to pick them all up and stand, it was now or never.

His hand closed around her upper arm, holding her down, keeping her in that kneeling position. He felt her tense up, felt her gasp...In that moment, he was tempted to kiss her. But he was not that brave, and instead, revealed what he had been hiding: a dark black stone polished into a nearly perfect orb, littered with the painted constellations of stars. He felt the tension in her arm ease in the face of this new surprise, and without delay, he dropped it into her palm, picking up the stack of books himself. Lyde had gone quiet with shock, standing and holding the ball numbly. He cleared his throat, motioning for her to take the books. She registered the sound, looking up at him and blinking several times before she registered his intention. "Oh. Oh! My books..." Cullen leaved forward to drop them into her arms, and with the success of his venture, was further emboldened. As the weight of the books left his arms, he leaned in to whisper to her: "You are more beautiful than any of the stars in the sky."

He turned and quickly left the scene, not waiting to see her reaction; his courage only went so far.

_That was it. It thundered outside, driving the boisterous crowd inside the tavern silent. Four cups lay empty in front of him, but the Templar knew how to drink. It was one of a few things a Templar could do; the other things were watch mages, pray, and then drink some more. His triumph in courting her so many years ago was short-lived. He should have known. But he had been younger, and blind to the danger that surrounded them. He should have known. A barmaid filled him up on his fifth cup, but before he took a sip, the doors slammed open. In walked her...was it her cousin? Twice removed, maybe - but the Hawke of the Amell line. Hawke had her eyes, and that fact unnerved him to no end._

The following week, there was a raid. It was a necessary part of life in the tower. The Knight-Commander had heard a rumor of a blood-mage in the tower; thus, every room was searched. Mattresses were torn open, books thrown off their shelves to search for hidden compartments, desks inspected...And footchests opened and ransacked. And with that search, the dozen of notes signed with 'C,' along with all the myriad of contraband gifts, came to light. No mage had left the tower; it had to be a templar. He should have known. One day, he had been walking in the halls, and Cullen could feel the eyes on him. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, people whispering. She was not in any of her normal spots - and he had grown so hopeful. Since his last gift, she had returned his affections in the best ways she could manage: brushing up against him, trying to flash him a smile when no-one was looking...He felt as if he was flying. But when she was not at the morning meal, when all he had were odd, and occasionally dirty looks from others...He knew.

He knew, and he panicked. What would happen to them? To her? What if she was sent to Aeonar? She didn't do anything- he was to blame. He would go to the Knight-Commander, he would explain everything!

But the Knight-Commander came to him, first.

He had been summoned to his quarters in the evening. Cullen was on edge. Lyde had not appeared during the day. She was not at the meal times; she was not in the halls. He had tried to offer to cover a shift of guard duty in her dormitory - but he had been denied, blocked even. And there was something in the other Templar's voice that made him shudder.

Gregoire was stern, but fair. He was separated from Cullen by a massive desk - a field of dark wood that separated between them. He gave no look of condemnation to the young man - his eyes were sad.  
"Why are we Templars, Cullen?"

"To...To defend the populace from mages, and to defend the mages from them...themselves?"

"Good. That is...partly correct. We do those things - we give our lives to Holy Andraste and to the Chantry. We aspire to remain unshakable in our faith to the Maker, and maintain a virtuous and steadfast moral center. Magic is a curse, Cullen, and we aim to keep the cursed from falling into the hands of demons and abominations, and keep the people safe from the cursed. We see these people - and they are people, every day. They are, in a way, our family, but they are mages. They are dangerous."

Cullen only managed a nod.

"You are a good Templar, Cullen. You did well, you did right in your dealings with the one who calls himself Anders...But you are a man. Even the best of men can be...weak. Our flesh is weak, Cullen, so our resolve, our devotion to our duty must be as steel."

He knew where this was going. But then the Knight Commander's voice went soft, and he would rise from his chair, and lean on the desk, opposite of Cullen. The sternness was gone from his voice - the melancholy in his voice surprised Cullen, made him look up to Gregoir.

"We are men, Cullen. And the heart of a woman can break the steeliest resolve. But if you care for her, you will distance yourself. There is nothing that can ever happen between you two - due to your vows, and due to what she is. Anything that...Anything that blooms between you will be taken away by the Chantry. Keep her from the greatest sorrow a woman could know. Stay away from her. If anything comes of you two-"

Gregoir's hand was on his shoulder, and his directness was startling.

"Whatever you feel for her, bury it. If she were to ever be with child, it will be taken from her, and it would crush her. If you care for her, do not let it be that way. You would not be first, and you may not be the last, but I assure you, it is a hard thing to live with."

In that moment, Cullen saw the young man Gregoir had been - he saw him in his own place. He nodded in affirmation. What could he say to such an admission from the man he aspired to be? How could he dishonor his confession? With that, Gregoir lifted his hand from his shoulder, and once more became the Knight-Commander. "Her Harrowing is tomorrow morning. You will see."

And he did.

_He saw her, on the floor and sleeping. It looked like sleeping, at first. Then she would twist, convulse. Then she would cry out - his sword was unsheathed, the tip placed against her neck. The touch of steel seemed to calm her. Her eyes fluttered open, but they were not her eyes: they were like two pools of milk, swirled with colors. Possession. Don't, he thought. He thought then, upon the top of the tower, and he thought the same, now, in the Hanged Man. Don't. Please. Fight! You are stronger than this! And she was. Her eyes shut, opened, and it was her again, alive. She had passed. They both had passed. His fingers tightened around the cup at the memory. Afterwards, she had came to him, she had thanked him - she had made her interest known, and with Gregoir's words still fresh in his mind, he rejected her. Rejected her, and lost her. The drink was not strong enough to dull the pain._

She was no longer a member of the circle! She was gone! At the news, he had first thought her to be a blood mage. Horror and fear gripped his heart- she had just survived the Harrowing! It wasn't supposed to be like this! Even after Gregoir's warning had cooled his heart, some ember had been kept alive with the knowledge that she was to have her own room as a full-fledged mage of the Circle. Then the Warden had come. He eagerly drank the man's tales, admired him...But then he had taken her away. It was only in the back of his mind that he realized he had saved her from fates worth than death: Tranquility, Aeonar...Any number of things that would have happened to her. And him - if she had died, if that spark in her eyes had been taken away by Tranquility, if she had been taken to Aeonar to be tortured and imprisoned the rest of her days, he would have died too. The Warden had saved them both, even if he had doomed them to separation forever.

Months passed, and the world seemed dimmed. She was dead, he was sure of it. None survived Ostagar. The world was darker, without her in it. He grew resentful of the mages - if she had not been one of them, she would not have been locked in the tower, thus she would not have been with the Blood Mage, thus she would not have been taken away. It was the mages' fault Lyde was gone.

The darkness that replaced the light she had brought to his heart grew, and grew. It seemed that the world echoed this. The mages grew ever more distrustful - there were more raids, more inquisitions to find blood-mages as the rumors grew.

He was harsher. He could hear it in his voice - there was nothing of her left to temper it into something kind. He drank more. He felt demons tear at the edges of his soul...But he was not sure if they were the demons of the Fade, or the demons of his own mind.

_He compared Hawke to his Lyde. He watched the group that assembled around the surly figure - he wondered if it was similar to the group that Lyde had gathered around herself. Elves, dwarves, knights and rogues: all of the makings of a good story. Cullen peered at his reflection in the bottom of the cup, the dark liquid offering a murky image._

He pushed her up against the stone wall of the hall, her legs wrapped around his hips. His platemail bruised her skin as he pushed into her.

Her lips on his as he felt the cool touch of the water caress their bodies.

She came to him on a dark, rainy night. It thundered outside as she lay atop him, as she took him.

In a dense and vibrant forest, he took her against a tree, she the damsel to his rogue.

They defiled the altar in the Tower chapel, Gregoir's giant desk, the floor upon which THEIR Harrowing took place, with their lovemaking.

They lay spread out naked in a field of violets.

She was curled against him on the tiny bunk in the dormitory, or in the privacy of her own room.

She was dressed in chains and little scraps of silk, bound and shackled to the seat upon which he sat, to do with as he pleased.

With leaves in her hair and her robes in rags, she was an apostate, and he was the Templar who had hunted her down, at his complete and total mercy.

The white shift was wet and spackled with sand, pulled up about her hips as he took her on the beach beneath the shadow of the tower.

But it wasn't Lyde. Not his sweet, innocent Lyde. Not the Lyde who had thanked him for what he would have done, but didn't. Maybe Lyde was not so sweet, or innocent, but this thing was not Lyde. She did not taste like her, did not feel like her - or how he imagined how she tasted, felt.

Invariably, it ended with him killing her. It ended with his hands around her throat, throttling the life out of the deep black pools that looked up with him in terror. Each time, those eyes changed to hellfire, and the demon was made flesh. She laughed, kissed at him, promised him the world.

And then there would be a new scenario, plumbed from the depths of his mind. Each time, he would kill her again. There was always that moment when he thought it was really her - a flutter of panic that rose in his breast...but each time, he remembered that he did not know how she tasted, how she felt. He remembered she was a mage, and mages took Lyde away from him and condemned her to her death at Ostagar. This was not his Lyde.

But why did it hurt so much, when he saw her body cease its struggling, saw the life die from her eyes? Because, in that moment, before she turned back into a demon who taunted him, a little part of him died.

The mages had caused this demon to come. They had caused the demon to come and therefore they caused the corruption of the image of his beloved. They were just as responsible as this demon for causing him to strangle her each time. They were the murderers, and he their hands. They should be dying instead of her...They should all die...  
"Cullen?"

"Get away! Begone! Using my ….my foolish infatuation with her against me, reaching the deepest corners of my mind - begone! I'll kill you! For killing them all, for making me watch, for killing-"

"Cullen? What has happened to you? It's, it's me. It's Lyde. Cullen..."

The demon had always gone when he commanded, giving him just a taste of a respite before destroying it with another sick fantasy. But she was still here...

He opened his eyes. It was Lyde...But it was not Lyde as he remembered it. She was flanked by another mage, by a man in platemail, by a redhead in leather armor. She seemed...older, than he remembered. Weary. She was dressed in a tunic of beige, belted at her hips with feathers laying flat against her shoulders - the tunic was cut open across her chest, revealing an expanse of skin he had only dreamed of. Though it was a topsy-turvy version of the girl he knew, there was something about her eyes that made him realize this was no copy.

But his love for her was buried beneath the bodies of Templars, beneath the laughter of the she-devil, drowned in the blood of his brothers. The mages - they did this. They ruined what was between them. "The mages. This is their fault"_ Not yours, Lyde. Can't you see what they've done to me, to us?_ "They need to be put down. They are...The main chamber. Kill them all. It's the only way..." _Unless you're a shade to get my hopes up. Unless you're further torment._

_Unless you really are one of them. Who are you? Where is my Lyde?_

She looked to him, placing her head lightly against the barrier. She did not feed his accusations, did not rebuke him. "I will be back for you. I will save you, and we will get you help. Hold on, Cullen. Hold on just a little longer..."

And she did. She emerged bloodspattered, but victorious. But then she ripped his heart out. Didn't she see what she had done, by siding with the mages? By allowing them to live? Didn't Gregoir - Gregoir with his stories of loss at the hand of the mages, wouldn't he see?

Anger burned bright, clearing all the darkness away in his heart to replace it with true zeal, true devotion to the duty of the Templars. It was Andraste's holy flame, and it cleansed him. It took away that infatuation with her. She was going to say something to him before she left - he had seen her approach as he nursed his wounds, saw her kneel next to him, reach her hand out - was she going to off him a caress? Was she going to burn him with her cursed magic, like he was certain she had done when they first met? He recoiled from her touch, and saw her falter in response. Lyde stood and left him. As she turned away, that flame subsided for the slightest second, and he wished with all his might that she would turn around. He felt that urge to tell her everything...But like every time before, he remained silent and she continued on.  
The holy flame within his heart burned brighter than ever. He willed it to do so, because without it, he would be plunged into a darkness, now that Lyde's love - no, his love for her was gone.

At least, he hoped so. It was so very dark at night now.

_He smirked slightly to himself over the rim of his sixth cup. He had convinced himself so certainly then. He would never know if she truly returned his affections, if she had loved him back. How could he know? There had never been any real words between them. All he had was the soft insinuations after the Harrowing, that touch-that-never-was after the incident in the tower, and the acceptance of his worthless trinkets. She had said she would save him, and she did. She had come back for him, twice. And then, there was..._

There was justice. Pure, cold justice. The mages were sleeping, and he was on guard. The tower was but a ghost of its former self. He was a ghost of his former self, kept alive only by that burning flame. Every mage that was not her deserved to die. They deserved to die because she was now dead. There would be no return now; there may never have been a return, but when he had heard the news, a part of him that he didn't realize still existed...the part of him he destroyed, piece by piece, with his hands around the thing that assumed her form...It was still there. Or it had been there.

She was dead. The mages here were not. Maybe...Maybe if he killed them, he could regain those pieces of himself that were lost. Maybe he could avenge her, and find peace for himself. He could avenge what they had, that fragile little thing that withered and died before it even had a chance to bloom.

They had been sleeping; they did not wake from their dreams. He repainted the halls red with the blood of the damned, baptising it into a holy place. This was justice! With each death, the flame within him roared bright. With each death, he was able to wash away the filth that had buried her within his heart. Where she had cleansed Ferelden of the Blight, so would he cleanse the taint of the mages. She had faced the Archdemon for them all, for him. He could face the First Enchanter.

But when that time came, he failed. The other Templars, those he had called brothers and sisters - the Knight Commander, who had shared his own secret with him, they stopped him! They worked with the mages to stop him!

Cullen was stripped bare and thrown into a cell. He was not starved of food, but he was starved of Lyrium. There had been visions of her: of her crying out to him, wails of how she needed him, cries of agony that he could not stop as the dragon she killed took her life with it. He heard the anguished wails of his comrades-in-arms. He heard the crashing of waves against the shore.

There...There had been a letter. Before he had snapped, there had been a letter from his Lyde. It had been among the last actions she had taken before facing the Archdemon. When he broke the seal and opened it, a dried bloom fell into his palm: a violet. He had closed his hand around it instinctively, afraid it might blow away, afraid that if he did not hold it tight, it would be gone, just as she now was, but when he opened his palm, the dried flower had been crushed to dust.

That was the night he made sure the tower of mages rang out with the cries he could not utter.

_Meredith had found him - had sought him out, when news of what he had done spread. He was not welcomed by Gregoir in the Kinloch Hold - that which had been his home for so many years. Meredith had confided in him of her story, of her reasons why the mages needed to be guarded. She had helped him put himself back together, piece by piece. He supported her without question, but the flame that burned so brightly on his last night in the tower had weakened after the ordeal. His Lyde was not coming back, no matter how many mages fell to him, no matter how many apostates he hunted down. The Circle in Ferelden had failed to protect her, and he had failed to protect her. Now his duty was to protect the mages in the Gallows, in her name. The Knight-Commander of Kirkwall was strict, but she was strong in a way Gregoir had not been. _

_Seven cups, all cluttering the table. Not a single one dulled his memory, nor did they dull the pain. Hawke had left by then, with the motley band of misfits. Another link to his Lyde gone. Meredith had crushed the rumors that followed him to Kirkwall, and for that he was grateful. It was his own burden to carry, this lost love. There was even a small chest, filled with trinkets and baubles that had been given to a young girl by a young man. _

_It was not a matter of knowing an Amell once, who had been a special woman like none other. He knew her still. She WAS a special woman and the only woman would ever be in his heart. There she would live, till he met her again by the Maker's side. _

_Even if the only thing left of her were memories, relived in his cups._


End file.
